


I Don't Come Back

by NoShitSherlock



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 1940 au, Angst, Bombs, Dunkirk Au, Dunkirk/Merman AU, Kissing, M/M, Merman Louis, Near Death Experience, No smut which is unholy for me I know, Panic Attacks, Prince Louis, Saving Harry's life multiple times :), Soldier Harry, War, cyring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-29 02:26:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11431230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoShitSherlock/pseuds/NoShitSherlock
Summary: “Why’d you save me?”“I have a soldier kink...?”THE DUNKIRK/MERMAN AU ONE SHOT THAT NO ONE ASKED FOR BUT EVERYONE IS GETTING.





	I Don't Come Back

**Author's Note:**

> Since Dunkirk is around the corner, I wrote this motherfucker based off the Harry/Alex drowning/screaming his flat ass off scene that surely, if you're reading, we've all seen :)
> 
> I've also written this in memory of the Grenfell fire that happened in my city <3 They will be remembered like the soldiers who died trying to get back home from Dunkirk almost 80 years ago.
> 
> THIS HAS NO SMUT O-M-FUCK I KNOW THAT'S A FIRST FOR ME :')
> 
> THIS IS SO FAR OUT OF MY FIELD, I HOPE IT ISN'T TERRIBLE!

⚓

He knows he's failed to grab life by the hand when he's a foot on deck but there's the hands of a man he once held in comfort shoving him off the ship.

Every soldier lacks personal space, cramped up on the wooden flooring. They don't care, not when there are others in the water flailing their arms helplessly looking like ants in a jar of water with the lid closed.

There's the striking of bombs that deafen them and the horrific screeches of men losing their joints that scar them, so the last thing they care about is making space for one more soldier when there isn't any. They leave him to be consumed by the swallowing waves and impaled by the blow of a bomb.

Harry Styles is pretty. The soldiers never learned his name, they just learned his face. He is the emerald eyed lad with the red lips they like to joke about and title _plungers_ , and gentle voice they like to aid themselves to whilst getting patched up when there is a shortage of nurses.

There was one soldier who cared enough to ask his name, and Harry fell in love with the entire idea of it. Then a week later, the soldier was shot down as the Battle of Dunkirk started, and he opened himself up to mourning for the first time since he joined the Second World War. It had been sweet for seven days, but it wasn’t meant to last.

The result was that he was reduced back down to the _pretty guy_ or the _soldier worth dying for a fuck with_ , and whilst that should have given his fellow fighters incentive to give him a place on the ship, he knows their minds aren’t set on him right now, but on getting the hell home.

So when his body impacts with the water and he’s being sucked in, just as a bomb is being exploded less than five meters away from him, he knows resurfacing will either get him killed or get his hope killed, again.

He clutches at his ears, the ringing of the bomb deafening despite being underwater. He’s in agony, mentally, because he knows the twenty seconds he has left before his lungs give out is the twenty seconds he has left of his life.

There’s the decision of how he wants to die being presented. He must decide between the shattering of his skull as a bomb detonates on his head, or the act of saltwater filling his lungs. The second option is more respectful to himself, so he can die without the many eyes of the soldiers who have just left him there watching in sympathy. However, resurfacing allows them to watch his demise and leave them with the guilt that they let the _pretty guy_ die, and all their chances of relieving stress along with it.

He’s got fifteen seconds left before his lungs fail, and there’s another shell hurtling into the water, three meters away from him. His mouth parts in excruciating pain, because his hands over his ears don’t mute the eardrum-bursting _bang_ of the bomb.

He remembers that his mother is at home, awaiting a neatly written message that he’s _okay_ and he’s _on his way back_. The thought of her never receiving it is what leans him towards the idea of resurfacing, just in case his fate isn’t death at twenty-three.

Then there’s ten seconds left and his lungs are already pulsing. There’s no getting out of it, he knows. Not when there’s another body being engulfed by the sea and falling limp already on impact. There’s the sight of his knee spurting out blood, staining the water around him. He only has one foot.

The soldier’s body drifts lifelessly, and Harry wishes he could recognise him, but his vision has deducted to useless, his sight multiplying to three. His chest is nothing but a cage of suffocation, because there are five seconds left - his eyes are clamping shut.

On the fourth second, he knows he’s crying even though he’s soaking in the sea. On the third second, he feels his body sink further, weak and pliant in the water. At two seconds, his hands drop from his ears and his head slouches down.

On the last second, there’s the feeling of arms wrapping around him and dragging him away, but the water has already started to fill his lungs.

He blacks out.

⚓

Spluttering up water and heaving awfully leaves Harry’s chest feeling just as damaged as it felt being deprived of oxygen. Being welcomed into heaven shouldn’t feel so draining, but Harry believes he’s successfully made it there when he is faced with the golden glow of tanned skin, Caribbean Sea coloured eyes and a pretty smile.

Then there’s the plummeting of a bomb which its shell blasts apart, the firing of guns that are clearly loaded on a great deal of ammo and the shrieking of dying soldiers, and Harry realises he’s not in heaven. He’s still very much in the middle of a battle to get home and he should be _dead_.

There is a body plastered on top of him that cries out at the sound of the nearby explosion and receives the splatter of Harry’s throw up on the sand, who tries to turn his body over to empty out his system. The person drops off him with a thud onto their front, letting out a little mewl of pain.

“You don’t need to be salty! No pun intended!”

It has to be shouted over the commotion of the war just to be heard, but Harry doesn’t respond. Harry coughs, chest attacked, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes are closed in exhaustion and he feels wrecked. He only opens them to inspect this strange person who must be the reason he is still alive. He doesn’t recall being able to swim the distance back to the shore of Dunkirk.

When he does, he’s faced with the glimmer of golden scales under the sun, each their own unique shade and pattern of the rich colour. A _tail_ flaps against the sand creating a patting noise. It reshapes the sand and sends some of its grains launching up into the air only for gravity to send it helplessly back down into a different place.

Harry feels sick. He’s either in heaven, hallucinating due to hitting his head on a piece of debris from one of the blown-up ships or some sick bastard is playing mind tricks with him. He immediately backs away, putting a significant amount of distance between him and the _thing_ before him. It’s not intended to be a rude gesture, he’s just far from a sense of reality and the thought of greeting with manners right now doesn’t cross his mind.

“What the _hell_ are you?!”

Harry can barely hear his own self with the white noise ringing in his ears and the ruckus of war. The _thing_ starts to grin, full teeth and blithely.

“The person that just saved your life!”

“Person?! You have a- a _tail!_ ”

“Yeah, all mermen and mermaids do!”

The soldier blinks, mouth agape and eyebrows drawn in scepticism. He’s learned of the folklore of a half human-half sea creature, but he never was issued with the name of their species, or a depiction of one on a canvas with paints. He believes the lack of proof is due to the fact _it’s just a folklore_ , and creatures like the _thing_ before him doesn’t exist.

Yet there’s a _thing_ before him, with very stunning features and, just like he’s heard, an aura that is luring him in dangerously.

“Mer-what now?!”

The _thing_ lets out a laugh, an idyllic sound that keeps true to the beauty apparently associated with his species, and he flaps his tail on the sand excitedly, like a little child clapping their hands at the sight of discarded war equipment that they get to fiddle with.

“A fish!”

That doesn’t do anything to close the soldier’s mouth. Instead, he feels like fragments of his brain has sizzled out, parts needed to function words and make sense. The ‘fish’ must recognise the look of pure disarray on his face, because then he’s joyfully speaking despite _World War Fucking Two_ happening.

“Oh, sorry! Let me formally introduce myself! I am Louis Tomlinson, prettiest merman of the English Channel, if I do say so myself! I’m originally from the coast of Bournemouth but my family decided to occupy the Dunkirk seafront after being evacua-“

“I’m sorry- _merman?!_ ”

Harry just isn’t processing it as quickly as the fact he was going to either get devoured by the sea or disfigured and wiped out by a bullet or bomb.

“Yeah, haven’t you heard of us?! You put faeces in our homes so we sink ships as a mere thank you!”

The soldier looks over to the many ships sinking, being plummeted by shells and flooded with water. He sees the many men hanging onto railing for dear life, and others being tossed overboard by the drop of their ships. They are flung helplessly, and resemble flakes and pieces of burning material falling from a flaming building. He wants to say out loud _serves them right_ for discarding him when he is a good source of sexual relief, but he would rather be sent to his death instead of disrespect his body in order to keep his life.

“Oh, no, that’s not us! That’s you humans!”

It’s horrific, the sight of his country struggling to survive whilst he’s kilometres away still in sight but safe. Out there, it’s every man for himself. Here, Harry has a legend by his side who has supposedly hauled him out from the killing sea and has literally saved his life. He looks down as his teeth start to clatter.

When the merman doesn’t receive a response, he notices how the soldier has started to shake in a shiver. Louis sighs, because he’s all tail and bare torso, and is unable to provide the shocked survivor any heat. He flaps his tail sympathetically, once and limply.

“What is your name?!”

The green eye man trembles, catching his bottom lip between his teeth to cushion the clash of bones. He only ends up biting his lip causing a small stream of blood to leak out of the corner of his mouth and accent his chin.

“H-Harry!”

“You look more like an Alex!”

“Well I’m glad I’m a Harry!” The soldier laughs, wet hair dropping in front of his face as he looks down at the merman on his front before him. “That’s who you decided to save!”

Louis hums and continues to flap his tail against the wet sand, leaning on his elbows. The water creeps up under his scales and hydrates them the littlest. It is better than being completely dried up and feeling like he hasn’t had water in days.

“I decided to save a pretty face! I’m just a merman! I don’t have special powers that tell me what someone’s name is before I’m told it!”

“Yet you can tell I look more like an Alex?!”

The merman is about to answer, his glistening lips parted, but he gets distracted by warplanes in the distance flying over in their direction, and then his face is being contorted with utter fear.

Harry barely registers how the merman flaps his tail in fright and begins to roll his folklore self into the water, his lack of legs leaving him in a struggle. The green eyed man knows that ten seconds from now, those warplanes will be splattering them with bombs if they don’t move. The merman is quicker than him at realising that.

With no given choice, Harry bolts, eight seconds biting at him. He sucks in as much air as he can on the fifth second, the sound of the warplane engines daunting as they become louder and nearer.

On the third second, he’s thigh deep in the Dunkirk seafront water, military boots weighing him down. At two seconds, he knows he doesn’t have enough time to dive under, but with one second to spare, when he’s crotch deep in the water, he’s being dragged under, just as a bomb is plummeting into the shallow water awfully near him, sand splattering in all directions and a massive hole being made.

There is a white noise that floods Harry’s hearing, and he clutches at his ears tightly in pain as the grip on his legs loosen. He’s frightened, because if the hands let go, he will accidentally resurface and receive a shell straight to his face.

However, he opens his eyes in ultimate fear and realises he’s much deeper in the water than he thought. There’s the same golden tailed merman before him with the same stunning cerulean eyes (in which the dirty water of the English Channel can in no way compare to them), evidently shook but nevertheless still beautiful.

The merman’s hands grab at Harry’s wrists, yanking the soldier’s hands from his ears. He shakes his head, and motions for Harry to use his index finger to push his tragi in, which blocks out the explosion of another bomb much better.

Harry starts to count down the twenty seconds again in which he can hold his breath for, and too quickly he is getting to ten seconds and starts to panic. The merman notices the soldier’s fright and pained facial expression, but tugs him back when he tries to resurface at five seconds.

Harry won’t look like an Alex anymore if he resurfaces.

If they weren’t in the water, it would be very evident that the soldier is crying, because he’s facing an end again and this time, a legend won’t be able to save him, but that’s exactly what happens.

Again.

Harry’s cheeks are grabbed with brute force and his lips clash painfully against the merman’s at the last second. His body automatically breathes in what would be water if it wasn’t air from the merman.

Their faces are so close together in that moment that Harry forgets there’s a tail where legs should be. The merman isn’t a _merman_ anymore, he isn't a _folklore_. No, he’s Louis Tomlinson, the person who has just saved Harry’s life – twice.

And at that, Harry falls in love – twice.

He falls in love with the whole aspect of his name being asked and he falls in love with his life being saved. All by someone who Harry’s only just met on the cusp of death and supports a folklore Harry never believed in.

The soldiers on the ships that have sailed away with all limbs attached mean nothing to Harry in the little moment where he exhales and then breathes in Louis’ air again. He doesn’t need them when he has literal life support in front of him, much prettier than the men he fought with and more filled with damns to give.

He is stuck in a trance, salt water numbing his eyes but letting his vision stay twenty-twenty, because he’s still able to see the specks of gold mirroring the shade of his scales and the rare flecks of emerald green in Louis’ sky blue eyes.

In the extended moments it takes to be secured of their safety when they resurface, Harry’s hands come to rest on Louis’ own cheeks. He cups them like his face is a piece of antique china, fingertips resting ever so gently on the merman’s skin. He’s almost afraid to touch him, as if the person’s pigmentation will merge away into the colour of the sea like he’s been a fragment of Harry’s imagination all along.

However, as his dirtied skin from the war touches Louis’ beautifully tanned skin, the merman doesn’t fade away. He’s still very much there, and Harry resurfacing to hear the high voice of the sea creature confirms that.

"It's affecting me too! My home!" Louis yells, the sickening sounds of the Battle of Dunkirk even louder than before and almost drowning out his shout. “We have sensitive ears! It's like our ear drums are bursting! When the bombs explode they cut our eardrums! Merbabies don't survive it - they go deaf!"

Harry wants to respond, but then there’s the screeching wail of a soldier losing his legs that is heard amongst all the other yells and cries. Harry’s head is not underwater anymore, so he should be able to breath, but he _can’t_.

He starts to tremble, and it’s not because of the ghostly cold sea water, but because his mind is pulling a blank on him and he’s forgotten how to breath, hyperventilating pathetically. His heart rate increases to concerning rapid, his throat tightens as if his neck is in a noose, his chest starts to feel an excruciating pain and the only solution to the panic attack he is having is blocking out the sounds of the diabolic war with his hands on his ears.

He’s doing it all wrong again, using the palms of his hands to block out the sounds instead of his index fingers pushing at his tragi, but the merman doesn’t point it out, horrified at the soldier losing his mind. Then the crying starts, and the blue eyed creature questions himself on if it would have been better to let the soldier rest in peace than endure any more of the mentally breaking war.

Louis wraps his arms tightly around Harry’s waist to hold him up in the water, but Harry starts to thrash in his arms, yelling.

“STOP! STOP! STOP!”

“Hey! Hey, it’s okay! It’s alright-“

“Make it stop! Please!”

“I can’t, Harry! Just- Just breath!”

It has no effect whatsoever, because the soldier is still choking over air, shaking his head with his hands over his ears and crying. The merman’s heart starts to break. There’s no doubt that this is a soldier with a family in a home that he just wants to get back to but there’s no space on any of the ships making it out of the Dunkirk seafront alive.

The sick truth is, if Harry doesn’t attempt to board one of the ships again, he won’t make it back home alive.

“Please!” Harry sobs, “Make it stop!”

Louis is smart, but this is a human in front of him and he doesn’t know what will make this human better. So he does what he knows best, what he’s done to many-a-French-mermen and mermaids before in order to calm them down when his family’s appearance at the Dunkirk seafront stirred up discomfort and a lot of rage. Really, he only had to float and be pretty, but Harry’s eyes are clenched shut, so Louis has no choice but to lace his fingers through the soldier’s hair and capture his lips - much more gently than before - in a soothing kiss.

Harry drags his lips away at the feeling, eyes finally opening to see what his mouth was just on as his breath gets caught in his throat. When he realises that his lips were just on _the lips of a merman that should just be a folklore but is in fact real_ , he feels the pain in his chest subside the littlest, and his throat unclench the slightest, then he tangles his fingers in the sea creature’s hair, latches his lips onto his like a leech, and kisses him back.

Harry never would have thought in the twenty seconds he had left to live after losing his chance of getting home that he would live on to kiss something he didn’t believe was ever real. He doesn’t know why he was saved by this wonderful person, and he still isn’t sure if maybe he’s in limbo or not, but he’s glad.

He’s so glad, because as Louis glides his lips against his, all the trauma caused by World War Two, all the nausea caused by the dead bodies lined up on the Dunkirk sand and all the sadness of being in war in the first place – it all dissolves, _disappears_ , and all Harry feels is the amazing, blinding feeling of being okay.

He’s _okay_.

He’s _alive_.

And as he opens his eyes as he starts to pull away from the merman before him, he doesn’t just feel okay, but he knows he looks okay, that he’s very fortunate because he’s hasn’t lost limbs or his sight or his hearing and he’s alright.

Thanks to Louis Tomlinson.

He barely has a second to breath before the merman is pulling him in for another kiss, one that’s less slow and more fierce, one that states that despite the differences in their species, he wants to feel Harry.

So Harry grabs him by the waist, pulling him closer until their fronts are almost merged together, slotted and snug, and Louis’ tail is the only thing keeping their heads above water. The blue eyed merman bites at Harry’s bottom lip, urging him to part his lips and let his tongue in. Given the permission, Louis pushes in, the pad of his tongue licking the roof of Harry’s mouth, then the two rows of his teeth. He starts to battle with Harry’s tongue, their saliva swapping without a fuss and their teeth clashing, vigorous like the war going on.

The sounds of explosions have long faded out, and when the two draw back to gaze into each other’s eyes – over the screaming in their heads of _oh my God_ – the sounds stay drowned out.

“You kiss like a prince.”

Louis laughs, beautifully, and surprises Harry immensely with the confession that comes out of his mouth as an answer.

“I am,” the merman smiles innocently, “of the Seven Seas.”

“Y-You never told me- oh God,” Harry moves back in fear that he’s upsetting the merman prince by invading his personal space (which is far from the truth) but Harry can’t help the action. He ends up having half his head drop in the water before he’s able to flail his arms to bring himself back up. It’s an amusing sight judging by the giggle that leaves the mer-prince’s mouth.

“If I told you that, you wouldn’t have believed I was real at all… Can you believe my royal ass family were actually kicked out of Bournemouth when we are who we are? Pfft, unbelievable! I should have sent their ripe mer-asses to the mer-dungeon. What a time of disbelief and idiocy that was.”

Louis doesn’t look hurt at Harry’s action, just humoured which allows Harry to feel a little lighter about potentially upsetting the _prince of the Seven Seas_ , which he really hasn’t.

“Why’d you save me?” Harry can’t help but blurt out.

“I have a soldier kink...?” It’s not a valid answer, Louis knows, but he doesn’t really have one. “I just…I had swum to the surface to see the damage of the war, you know, move debris further out into the channel...and then I saw you.”

“Oh,” Harry blinks, face straight.

Then he’s latching his arms around Louis, pulling him into a hug and once again leaving the merman’s tail swaying to keep them both afloat.

“Thank you… Thank you, Louis.”

Louis snuggles into the hug, because he may be a prince and travels the Seven Seas all the time, but he’s never dared associate himself with humans – except this one – and it feels nice. He’s never been hugged by one before.

When they pull away, and their bubble is finally burst as the sounds of war come back into focus, a sense of dread fills them both. They know it’s time to say goodbye.

“You should go now, before all the ships are gone…Get yourself out of here, Harry. Don’t die in Dunkirk.”

"Yeah...” Harry looks down sadly, swaying his arms in the water to keep his body up.

“But if you go, I won’t be here if you ever come back.”

Harry looks up at Louis after hearing the statement, confusion flooding his face.

“Why?"

Louis looks at him sadly, an apologetic, sweet smile on his face and blue eyes glimmering with a tinge of pain.

“Because…”

The merman moves back slightly, so it doesn’t feel like he’s shoving the sharp ends of an anchor between the two of them.

**"I don't come back.”**

Harry is then faced with a decision, _home or Louis?_ It shouldn’t be a decision, he should want to get home, not stay with the merman, but he’s already made an emotional attachment to him, because that’s what happens _when someone saves your life._

But he must get home.

“I’m sorry…I have to get home,” Harry starts to move away from him.

And Louis is okay with that as much as he can be, that he won’t get see this human ever again, but he doesn’t want to let him go just like that, just with words.

He is unable to get himself to move until Harry has reached the sand, soaked and standing up. When Louis finally responds, swimming to the shore and pulling himself up onto the sand with his elbows, he doesn’t let him leave with just words.

As the man walks away, not daring to look back in fear of feeling like his heart is being wrenched out of his chest, Harry doesn’t expect to hear the merman calling after him.

“Kiss me one more time before you go!”

Harry barely hears it, another bombshell exploding nearby halfway through the merman’s sentence. It hurts his ears again and leaves the same white noise ringing in his eardrums, but he doesn’t cover his ears like he has done. He wants to hear Louis’ voice, one last time.

“Harry! Kiss me again, just to prove to me you can! That you’re a human and I’m a merman and we _can!_ Please?! Before you go!”

So Harry does. He turns around, sprints the distance between them and drops to his knees on the sand to capture the merman’s lips in one last kiss, because he’ll never get to kiss a prince in his life again, or a merman.

Then he leaves. Louis watches feeling the emptiest he’s felt in his life.

⚓

“Y-You came b-back.”

“You never left.”

It’s been exactly two days since the merman had met the human amid the Battle of Dunkirk, and it has been two days since he has emerged from the water. So when he does - once the sounds of bombing and gunfire stop and the merbabies stop crying out - to find the battle over with nothing but grey smoke left, he dares to leave the water to search the span of the shore. He plans to roll around on the sand for however long it takes to check every single dead man, recognisable and unrecognisable, and make sure Harry has got out alive.  
Instead, he resurfaces to the sight of a curled-up ball on the sand – a soldier – cold and shaking and staring off into the distance.

Louis’ heart skips a beat when he realises it’s the soldier he never thought he’d see again.

“I-I never left b-because I know if I-I g-go, I won’t c-come back.”

Louis looks up at the cold soldier. His lips are blue and cracked, his face is sickly pale and Louis wouldn’t be able to stop his body from trembling even if he was to pin him down. It settles in his head that Harry doesn’t look well at all, and if he never left, he’s just spent two days and nights in the cold and in the same clothes that are now dry but were drenched.

“Harry…” Louis’ face becomes drained of its colour, his eyes welling up with tears. “You’re dying.”

The soldier lets out a sad laugh that is unsteady with his body shaking.

“I k-know.”

“Why didn’t you go?! You should have gone! Why would you stay?! What about your country?! You don’t just abandon them like that, even if they abandoned you!”

It’s evident Louis is enraged, but Harry sees that he’s just heartbroken, shattered that Harry would stay and near death for a third time, just because if he went he wouldn’t have come back. Louis would rather Harry be a million miles away and alive then a footstep or fin away from him and slowly freezing to death.

“I-I’d rather ch-choose t-the person who sp-spared a-a thou-ght for me when m-my country didn’t.”

Louis blinks. His heart swells.

“ _You_ s-saved me when my country d-didn’t,” Harry continues.

Louis has lost the feeling of rage, a small but sad smile playing on his lips, and he has settled for feeling thankful under the sunrise, thankful for saving this stunningly beautiful human called _Harry_.

“How are you going to get home now?”

There’s no getting home for Harry, Harry already knows that. He’ll never get out of Dunkirk alive, not with the ships long gone. So he smiles sadly, leaning in and leaving the lightest of pecks on Louis’ lips. This is all he has left, his place on the sand and the merman in front of him.

“I already am.”

Yeah, he’s home.

⚓

And to lighten up your day even more:

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment or kudo if you love this enough hehe <3 Check out my other works that DO have smut (eeek like really smutty smut). I am currently working on Sulk and Forfeit alongside with some long one shots that I have yet to post so I'm rather active ;)
> 
> Connect with me on my fan account on Instagram: @harrymarriedin :D
> 
> I hope this little one shot has made your day .x


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